


Harry Potter and the Time of Transition

by kittyrunner



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-02-25 15:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2626385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyrunner/pseuds/kittyrunner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Still reeling from previous events, Harry Potter enters his sixth year under the weight of his many burdens. With Dumbledore now playing a greater role in his life, they must work together to overcome the deep connection Harry shares with the Dark Lord or else risk sacrificing Harry's sanity before the Prophecy can be fulfilled. A/U-6th year</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters, names, places, etc. are entirely the creation of J. K. Rowling and do not, under any circumstance, belong to me.
> 
> A/N: Greetings! This is a story that I began writing in college and am now continuing in my post-college years. It picks up after The Order of the Phoenix and will be an AU 6th year fic. The first twelve chapters are already written and I will post them every couple of weeks. I find that writing is extremely therapeutic in all of the chaos of my life, and I hope you like reading this story just as much as I love writing it. I am a huge fan of hurt/comfort and angst, so you can expect to see lots of it in this story! Enjoy!

Chapter 1

_Unwanted_ _Routines_

It was one of those summer nights where the air was so humid that it felt like liquid. In the stillness of the night it blanketed everything in sight with its muggy thickness, like an oppressive weight bearing down upon the world in its slumber. No breeze stirred the leaves of the branches or rippled the grasses of the perfect, tidy lawns. There were no animals hunting in the night or foraging for food. It almost seemed as though all life were hiding in their burrows, dens, and nests. Even the crickets and katydids seemed to be taking the night off, their chirps absent to all ears.

Yet at Number 4, Privet Drive, all was not still. A boy lay tossing and turning in his bed, tormented by dreams, dreams that could freeze the blood and chill the bones of any normal person. But this boy was not exactly normal. He was a wizard, like his parents, and also like his parents had, he attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where he learned to enhance his magical power and put it to good use. Harry Potter would have very much liked to share his knowledge of magic with his parents and learn more about his magical heritage, but unfortunately his parents had died when he was only a baby, murdered by the evil wizard, Lord Voldemort, and he never had a chance to talk to them.

Therefore, since he was an orphan, this boy had to spend his summer breaks, between school terms at Hogwarts, with the only living relatives he had left-the Dursleys.

Having no magical blood within them, the Dursleys despised everything unusual or out of the ordinary, which most definitely involved anything pertaining to magic. Because of his magical heritage, Harry was quite often the source of his aunt and uncle's and cousin's animosity. Luckily for Harry, though, he spent only two months of the year with them, and the rest of the time was spent with his friends at Hogwarts, learning about magic, playing Quidditch on broomsticks, and having wild adventures.

Yet Harry's magical life was not all fun and games. Lord Voldemort was still out there, and Harry was his prime target, as he was the only person ever to have survived the Killing Curse, the same curse that stole away his parents' lives. Thus, he was marked forever as Voldemort's rival according to a cryptic prophecy made when Harry was a little baby. Harry had had numerous encounters with Voldemort, and he somehow always evaded death, however narrowly. In his fourth year at Hogwarts, Harry had had a very traumatic experience with Voldemort, and even though he kept his own life, a fellow schoolmate, Cedric Diggory, had died by Voldemort's hand. And even though that experience was bad enough, Harry's encounter in his fifth year was even worse, because his very own godfather, Sirius Black, had lost his life in the effort to protect Harry.

And Harry had never fully forgiven himself for that.

It was after that terrible ordeal that Harry vowed that he would destroy Lord Voldemort himself. And the nightmares Harry experienced nearly every night fueled his determination to defeat the Dark Lord.

_3:47 am_

The stillness was shattered when he awoke in the night with a startled gasp, which was abruptly cut off by a slippery hand frantically clamping over his mouth. Breathing heavily, he slid his sweaty palm upward in the dark to settle on the source of his distress, an oddly shaped mark on his forehead. This mark was currently radiating with heat, and torrents of pain were rapidly undulating to the rest of his skull, sending flashes of pain-induced lights over his eyelids and enveloping him with waves of dizziness, which threatened to topple him off of the bed.

Yet Harry did not panic or cry. He did not call for help or take any pain medication. He did not do anything but sit there patiently because, unknown to most, this was a common occurrence for him, one that frequented him nearly every night. It had now become a routine that could not be escaped and therefore had to be accepted, he reasoned. Tears and self-pity were not only pointless, but childish to him, and this young man had grown up far too quickly to allow himself the liberty of behaving in such ways.

With his one hand firmly pressed against his scar, and the other hand desperately clenching and unclenching a handful of the bed sheet beside him, Harry Potter steadied himself and muttered through gritted teeth, " One one-thousand…..two one-thousand….three one-thousand….." and all the way up to " fifteen one-thousand" until the pain gradually receded.

With a soft sigh of relief, Harry Potter lowered his hand from his face, and relaxed his grip on the sheets. And even before his slumping body sank back onto the lumpy bed, he was already asleep.

Approximately two hours later, as morning's first light began to creep through the slitted openings of the shutters and lay in hot parallel bars over the room, Harry Potter awoke. Slowly raising himself off of the mattress, he glared at the traitorous sun through the window, whole-heartedly wishing that it would have remained hidden beneath the horizon for a few hours more in order to grant him some extra much-needed sleep.

Sleep was rare for him. His constant nightmares and scar pains were beginning to take its toll on Harry, as evidenced by his ivory skin, stretched pale and taut over the bones of his face. His twin, emerald eyes which used to contain such spark and liveliness, now had darkened and dulled over, plagued by the nightmares and visions neither boy nor man should be allowed to glimpse.

Yet despite these things, Harry survived and he forced himself to get up every morning and just to take things one day at a time, and always to remember that there was hope in the next day. This promise of better days to come was the only thing keeping him from falling into pieces, and he knew it. He had to be strong. He had to be a man. He had to be like his father. He was done growing up and he wasn't a child anymore.

Harry told himself this every day, this monotonous mantra within his mind that never let him forget that he had to be strong. And Harry whispered it to himself now as he recalled the vision of the night before, the sobbing woman begging for her life, the child begging for his father, the father still and silent on the floor, his blood blossoming out from beneath him, proof of his defeat. Then, the last thing Harry saw before he awoke was an oppressive shadow beginning to fall upon the helpless, unprotected child, a promise of his doom to come.

Yet Harry couldn't recall their faces. During the past month, as his dreams began to increase in frequency, the number of victims had increased in such a way that the faces were indistinguishable. Even so, emotionally, he knew he was standing on a pedestal, and he couldn't help but feel bad about their deaths.

It reminded Harry so much of his own terrible past that it took his breath away, and he couldn't help but feel his eyes watering against his will…..

_No! I can't do this anymore. I will not! I am strong. I am not a child. I won't cry. Tears are useless. They won't bring those people back. They won't bring my parents back. They won't bring Cedric back. They won't bring Sirius back! I will not cry!_

Over and over, he repeated those words within his mind, a steady prayer that he forced himself to heed. Gradually, the images of Voldemort's victims faded away along with their pleading cries.

There was silence all around him and he allowed the warmth of the sun's beams to dry the beads of sweat that had broken out upon his forehead. He took a deep, steady breath and inhaled the hot summer air leaking in through the window. With a last square of his shoulders and an optimistic tilt of his chin, he finally relaxed. There. He was in control now. He almost let his emotions overpower him. He couldn't afford to brood upon the nightmares anym—

" _Boy!_   _Get your lazy bottom out of that bed and into the kitchen right this instant!"_

The voice cracked through the house like a whip and Harry started. His personal reassurances were interrupted by his uncle calling him down to breakfast. He wheeled around and made his way down the stairs immediately, hoping that things wouldn't become too ugly. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he realized that he was already too late for that.


	2. The Fallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry experiences a not-so-typical day of chores at the Dursleys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is chapter 2! Enjoy!

Uncle Vernon was standing at the bottom of the staircase, his arms crossed stiffly over his massive chest. His lip was curled in an unmistakable expression of disgust, and his graying mustache rippled unpleasantly each time that he exhaled sharply out of his over-sized, flared nostrils. As his small, beady eyes glared at Harry, his round face seemed to turn an even darker shade of red than it already was. He seemed to be too furious for words. Instead, he had puffed out his chest so much in his effort to intimidate Harry, that a couple of his buttons had come undone on his gray, tweed work suit.

Yet Harry maintained his composure, and kept looking straight into his uncle's eyes. As daunting as his uncle's fuming visage was, Harry's eyes couldn't help but travel to the kitchen, where his aunt stood framed against the doorway.

Even though her blonde hair was in rollers and she was dressed only in a fluffy, white bathrobe, Petunia Dursley looked like a very stern and imposing woman. Her thin lips were formed into a firm frown and her pale, steely eyes were narrowed accusingly at Harry. In her petite, long-fingered hand was a wooden spoon, which she tapped dangerously into her opposite palm.

A prickle of trepidation traveled swiftly up Harry's spine.  _Aunt Petunia wasn't going to beat him, was she?_

Harry's apprehensions were driven momentarily out of his head as his aunt's icy voice punctured the silence. "We heard you last night," she said simply.  _"Explain yourself."_

Harry gulped self-consciously. So he had cried out after all last night. He had to be more careful. He was beginning to lose control. He cast his eyes downward for a moment, considering how best to answer his aunt. It was best to reveal as little information as possible, yet not appear to be withholding too much. He couldn't mention the content of his dreams. That would only make him sound suspicious and dangerous to the Dursleys.  _But then again,_ Harry mused,  _I am already suspicious and dangerous to the Dursleys. How best to satisfy them?_

" _Well?"_  Uncle Vernon asked delicately. He had joined his wife at the kitchen entrance, and they were both now glaring down at Harry, their eyes flashing furiously.

Pushing his rounded glasses further up the bridge of his nose, Harry met their gaze firmly. He was simply too tired to cook up any excuses or fabrications, so he decided to settle with the plain and simple truth. "I had a dream."

He braced himself for the verbal onslaught of taunts, accusations, inquiries, and biting remarks that he knew were coming, but instead his aunt simply sighed and said awkwardly, "Well, try and keep the volume down from now on." And with that, she turned around and walked slowly into the kitchen, her shoulders stooping slightly as if she had suddenly aged a great deal.

Harry could feel his jaw drop down in shock. That was the mildest reprimand he had ever received from his aunt! Was she finally experiencing a change of heart? But Harry's hopes were immediately dashed when his uncle's deep, rough voice washed over his ears.

"Now, boy, I know that your aunt may be taking those empty threats of those freaks of yours a bit too seriously, but mark my words, you had better show a lot more self-restraint during the night, or else!"

Harry was sorely tempted to call out,  _"Or else what?"_  at his uncle's retreating back, but he decided not to push it. It was two weeks into his summer vacation, and so far, the Dursleys were treating him pretty fairly….or at least more fairly than they had the previous 14 years. They didn't force him to do chores all day as they used to, and they didn't starve him as bad as they had during the former years either. In fact, they hardly spoke to Harry at all, which Harry rather enjoyed. Being ignored was somewhat of a blessing compared to all of the unwanted attention he'd receive if he was at Hogwarts. And all of the letters he sent to Ron, Hermione, or the Order members contained assurances that he wasn't being mistreated, and that he was fine. The last thing he wanted was a huge squad of fully-trained witches and wizards barging into the Dursley's house just to see if he, Harry, was all right.

All Harry wanted and  _needed_ , he reasoned, was to be left alone.

* * *

 

Harry spent most of his days in his room, reading his school textbooks, writing in his journal, stroking Hedwig, or simply sitting on his bed staring off into space. He found peace within his own company, and he almost constantly found himself thinking of Voldemort and his followers, what they were plotting next, and most importantly, how he, Harry, would find a way to stop them.

His thick writing journal was already halfway full of vivid descriptions of his many nightmares during the night. He wasn't sure what else he should do with them. In each of his dreams so far, all of the victims were dead by the time Harry awoke, so there was really no point in contacting Dumbledore or the Order.

He was always tired, yet he was too afraid to sleep. Then the dreams came…every single night. Sometimes, an afternoon nap would give him a tiny little boost that would help him get through the evening and night hours, but for the most part, he only slept two or three hours of sporadic, interrupted sleep each night.

Despite this, he at least didn't have to worry about the sound of Dudley's snoring keeping him up anymore. Dudley was currently at a "prestigious" boxing camp, as Uncle Vernon called it. Harry didn't know how bludgeoning people in the head with cushioned fists could possibly be called "prestigious," but he wasn't one to complain. Anything that kept Dudley out of his way for two weeks was simply too good to be true.

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, on the other hand, noticeably missed their only child. At meals, Petunia would often recreate Dudley's favorite entrees, and then start weeping morosely that her baby Duddykins wasn't there to enjoy them. Vernon, meanwhile, would comment every evening on how quiet and empty the house seemed to be without the television set turned on. "Things you always take for granted," he would say.

"Boy," he said sharply, and Harry looked up from his barely-touched oatmeal to meet the hard, narrowed eyes of his uncle. "Since Dudders is away working hard at his boxing camp, I am expecting you to take over all of his household chores."

Harry snorted. He didn't think Dudley had ever done a single chore in all his life. Even if he had been told to do something, he would simply throw a tantrum until Mr. or Mrs. Dursley did the chore themselves. He nodded his head in acquiescence anyways. He didn't care about standing up to the Dursleys anymore.

Vernon Dursley's mouth stood ajar in apparent shock over his nephew's immediate submission. He had obviously anticipated for Harry to put up a bit of a fight and he had even rehearsed a few good threats to shoot at Harry had he refused to obey.

"What do you want me to do? Can I start now?" Harry asked. He was looking forward to having something to keep him busy. Doing chores might help him keep his mind off of other things, like the prophecy or Sirius.

_Sirius_. Harry swallowed thickly. He had thought of the name again and he quickly pushed it to the back of his mind.  _I can't think about him! My emotions make me weak! How else did I allow Voldemort access to my mind? If I wasn't so damn emotional, I wouldn't have gone running to the Department of Mysteries, and Sirius wouldn't have…_

Harry's thoughts were driven out of his mind by his uncle's droning voice. "…scrub and polish the car, mow the lawn, trim the barberry bushes, and wash the windows. Do you have anything to add, Petunia dear?"

His aunt shook her head, a troubled look flashing across her features briefly, before she stood up to clear the dishes away.

* * *

 

Harry's back ached fiercely as he bent over his aunt's barberry bushes.  
The sharp spines along the plant's stem scratched his hands as his thin fingers parted the maroon leaves. He hadn't thought of asking for gloves, but he could hardly feel the thorns anyways. His fingers seemed to be tingling all morning and he was having a hard time gripping the plastic handle of the shears. He kept taking frequent breaks to rub his hand vigorously over his prickling scar.

He was used to it throbbing at any time during the day. He didn't really worry about it, unless it was connected to a dream or vision. He couldn't even recall a single day during the past two weeks where his scar hadn't hurt at least once. With the entire wizarding world now aware of Voldemort's return, it seemed entirely reasonable for Harry's scar to be aching.  _One of the quirks for being "The Boy Who Lived,"_ Harry thought wryly as he clumsily plucked a thorn from his knuckle.

The sun's scorching rays were beating down on his head. Beads of sweat were trickling down the sides of his face and into his eyes as well. Harry took off his glasses and hastily scrubbed at his eyelids, but it didn't help much. As he replaced his glasses on his face, a sudden bout of dizziness overcame him and he was forced to lean backwards until he was lying down on the grass behind him. He felt a surge of something hot and bitter-tasting creep up his throat and he swiftly turned over to vomit. Only a few drops of a searing, foul liquid dripped from his cracked lips onto the grass. Panting, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and pushed himself off of the ground.

He staggered over to the garage where Uncle Vernon kept his ladder. Harry was pretty sure that the last time his uncle used a ladder, he, Harry, had ended up with bars fastened securely onto his window. He suddenly smiled. Well, not  _too_  securely. Fred, George, and Ron Weasley had ended up knocking the bars off with ease. His smile faltered as another wave of nausea overcame him. Harry quickly dashed outside and dropped down to his knees besides an agapanthus bush. He dry-heaved for a while, feeling a hot trickle of sweat flow down his spine. Once again, he couldn't bring up anything besides a couple drops of bile. His eyes watered and his nose burned as he took a couple of great gasping breaths. He knelt there in the grass for a time, not trusting his shaking legs to support himself quite yet, not daring to move until his breathing had slowed and the sweat on his face and back had dried off a bit in the light July breeze.

Harry sighed heavily. He had just thrown up twice in the past twenty minutes.  _What was wrong with him?_

* * *

 

The smooth, shiny surface of the glass window pane was squeaking loudly with each lazy swipe of the rag. Harry continued wiping the window, heedless of the fact that it was as clean as it could possibly be. He felt a strange and annoying buzzing sensation in his temples and his ears were ringing loudly with a single high-pitched note. He twisted a corner of the rag into his right ear as a feeble attempt to eliminate the ringing sound. It didn't work. He shifted his feet on the wooden ladder rung and heard an ominous creaking noise as a result. The ladder was so old that it seemed as though it was going to collapse from under him at any moment. He was surprised that it hadn't broken under Uncle Vernon's bulky figure, but then speculated that his uncle's weight must have merely weakened the wood so that he, Harry would risk falling off. Funny how things like that seemed to work out.

He let his thoughts wander as he continued wiping the rag over his pale reflection in the window. He wondered what Ron and Hermione were doing at home with their families, not needing to worry about the prophecy or about scar pains or about having to kill Voldemort in order to save the wizarding world. His eyes started to water as he thought about how badly he wanted to write to Sirius, how he wanted to tell him about what he was supposed to do, and how he didn't think that he could live up to the standards that Dumbledore and everyone else were expecting him to live up to. A single tear slid down the side of his nose and he wiped roughly at it with his sleeve.

"Stop that," he whispered to himself. He couldn't afford to be emotional. It could get him into trouble!

As if on command, Harry's scar began to prickle and the buzzing in his temples increased. The dirty washrag dropped from Harry's quaking fingers as he clapped his hand over his scar. The ladder swayed threateningly, and Harry shifted his other hand's grip on the rough wood of a rung. Just as the ladder's movements began to settle, Harry's scar positively exploded and he reeled again, forgetting where he was, both hands now clutching his face.

He didn't care that he was on a roughly swaying ladder, nor did he care that he was twenty feet from the ground. All he wanted to do was somehow stifle the blinding, searing pain that was coursing throughout his head.

The next thing he knew was the sensation of falling backwards. He cried out once. A sudden sharp pain hit his body all over, and then he felt nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Again, any feedback is most helpful! A warm thank you to SSDSnape and MelNotGibson for your kudos and comment for chapter one! Chapter three is already written and will be posted in a week or two!


	3. Mystery Visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings! And Happy New Year to everyone who celebrates it! I've added the third chapter. I am going to give fair warning that the angst really picks up in this one! Enjoy!

**Harry Potter and the Time of Transition**

Chapter 3

_Mystery Visitor_

* * *

His ears were buzzing and throbbing terribly when Harry regained consciousness. He noticed all too soon that his scar hurt too. He groaned loudly and tried to move his head a little. That was a mistake.

Shooting pain bolted down his neck and across the base of his skull, causing his vision to swim even more wildly than it already was. Vaguely, he wondered where his glasses were and his searching fingers combed the grass and earth around him with no luck. As he attempted to rub his eyes, he realized that his glasses were already perched upon his face.

His awareness slowly reached him as he lay back, staring up at the darkening sky. _Why was he outside?_ He felt heavy, as though his body was made of unyielding stone instead of flesh. Mobility was very limited; his body just didn't want to obey him. A prickling of pins and needles tingled throughout his limbs and torso, making Harry wonder if he was lying on a bed of nails. It wasn't until he managed to shift his right leg a couple of inches that he realized he was sprawled out in his aunt's garden and his right leg was tangled in the barberry bushes. Their inch-long, ruby thorns were embedded along his lower leg. He grimaced as he could feel each and every one of them throb wickedly beneath his skin.

It seemed that as soon as one body part began to hurt, the rest of him just had to join in. Pain was blossoming everywhere now: his left wrist, his right palm, his back. Even his gut roiled horribly and he wondered if he was going to be sick. As he tried to move his left leg, he felt a sharp pain lance down his shin. He grimaced and then carefully turned his head to the side, trying to get a further bearing of his surroundings.

The moon was out now and with its pale, waxy glare, he could see the illumination of metal to his right. There lay his uncle's ladder and all too soon it dawned on Harry that he had fallen off while cleaning the windows. He groaned again, swallowing down an urge to vomit. A chill swept through him as the air around him grew cooler. The only thought that prevailed in his foggy head was that he had to get in the house….somehow.

* * *

Harry's left shin was broken. This was the first new thing he learned, and as he lay gasping in the grass, he sorely regretted trying to walk on it. So instead he resorted to half-crawling, half-pulling himself to the back door. His leaden body protested every movement, his muscles aching and burning. Inch by inch, he was slowly approaching the door.

It was tedious work. His left wrist was swollen and tender and his right hand and leg were bleeding. His left leg was useless. Every movement was agony for it and it was impossible to keep it completely still as he dragged himself through the grass on his belly. Sweat coated his brow and dribbled down his spine, making him feel as though he was this dirty, slimy thing that had crawled out from beneath a rock and slithered its pitiful existence across the lawn.

He gritted his teeth as he tore up large clumps of grass in his effort to close the distance to the house. Frustration and desperation flooded him. He knew he was in bad shape. _Focus Harry_ , he told himself. _Hand over hand, hand over hand. Rest. Repeat_.

His mind wandered. He could imagine what people would think of him, Harry Potter, the savior of the wizarding world, the only possible vanquisher of the Dark Lord, now crawling through a muggle backyard, lacking the strength to even stand. _Pathetic._

He wondered why no one had come for him yet. Where were the Dursleys? Mrs. Figg? Remus Lupin? Dumbledore? If members of the Order had been keeping such a close eye on him, where were they now, when he needed them the most? But then again, he reasoned, they weren't there for him when he was in danger last summer, when those dementors surrounded him, when they were close enough for him to smell their rotten, smelly breath, when he had to resort to magic to save both himself and his cousin.

No, he was on his own. In the end, he was always on his own. His friends and adults could only protect him to a certain extent, but that was all in the past. A pat on the back and a word of encouragement along the way, but in the end he was always left to his own means. He would face whatever threat awaited him head-on, without assistance. What good would come if he asked for help anymore? Who would answer? Many would try, of course: Ron and Hermione, the rest of the Weasleys, the Order and Dumbledore….Who would die for him next?

_No one will_ , he answered himself. _Because I won't let them!_

His head spun, and his thoughts wandered to Sirius. He didn't care what Dumbledore said; it was entirely _his fault_ that Sirius died. _If I hadn't gone to the Ministry…if I had stayed at Hogwarts_ …

Harry's thoughts were interrupted by the feel of rough concrete against his fingertips. At last, he had reached the back stoop. A weak smile graced his face as he looked up at the door looming over him. The kitchen light had been left on. Its pale yellow glow streamed through the screen and looked like reflected gold at the end of an excruciatingly long treasure hunt. Harry sighed in relief and then swayed into unconsciousness once more.

* * *

" _Harry…Harry," a hoarse voice called out._

" _I'm right here," Harry said. Everything was misted. He couldn't see anything beyond a few feet in front of him._

" _Come and find me…"_

_Harry took a few steps forward. The mist grew thicker. It swirled around him. He held his hands out in front of him, trying to feel any obstacles in his way._

" _Where are you?" Harry cried, his words echoing._

" _You know," the strange voice replied, and the mist was suddenly all gone. He was standing on a dais. An archway with a fluttering black veil was directly in front of him._

" _Come find me…" the voice said again._

Harry jerked awake. He was slumped awkwardly against the banister inside the house. Streaks of blood were visible from the rug in front of the door, and leading all the way up the steps to Harry's current position. His body throbbed steadily though it was nothing compared to the throbbing in his heart.

"Sirius," he whispered, as he slowly pulled himself hand over hand up the stairs. He had to get to his room. He needed to rest…and hopefully heal.

The blood on his hands made gripping the railing very difficult, his hands slipping quite frequently. The awkward position of his broken leg slowed Harry down even more. He was sure that he wouldn't get up again if he slipped all the way to the bottom of the stairs. He would just lay there until the Dursleys woke up. Harry could picture his aunt screaming in disgust, his uncle's face reddening in fury, and his cousin laughing with glee. Then he remembered that his cousin was still at boxing camp and he wouldn't be returning for two more days yet. He would have smiled if his lungs weren't searing with every breath he took.

Trying to keep his mind off the pain, Harry swept his eyes around the room _. Look at the mess I've made_ , Harry thought, as he glanced at the sporadic blood trail on his aunt's white, pristine carpeting. _I'm dead…I'm dead_.

He continued to pull himself up the stairs, though. _I'll clean up tomorrow morning, after I sleep_. He tasted blood in his mouth and tried to swallow it down. As he approached the top of the stairs, he looked up at the landing and saw the family portraits hanging evenly on the wall. Dudley comprised of most of them, his bulky figure seemed to be squeezed between the picture frames: Dudley as a baby, Dudley on his first day at school, Dudley's 13th birthday, Dudley holding a boxing trophy…Harry's eyes slid dazedly over each and every one of them, though he eventually fixed his gaze on the boxing one. He could have sworn that Dudley's grinning face had morphed into that of a venomous smirk.

As he continued to squint at the photo, Dudley's eyes flicked down to Harry's and his whole face seemed to alight with triumph. Harry froze in confused astonishment as his cousin tilted his piggy face upward, mouth gaping, and with his chest and shoulders heaving heartily.

His cousin's picture was laughing at him.

* * *

Harry could not recall how he had managed to pull himself down the hallway, into his room, and onto his bed, but the next time he awoke, he was in that exact location. He knew precisely where he was because of the familiar sensation of a spring digging into his ribcage. _Stupid mattress_ , he thought, before he fell back into an uncomfortable slumber.

Red. That's all he could see. It was creeping up on him, touching him, burning him. It was pressing in on his eyelids, trying to get inward, igniting his eyes, his brain. He couldn't let it get him. He couldn't be consumed by it.

He awoke with a start. Pain was sprouting all over his body, though it seemed to feel sharpest at his leg. He glanced down with bleary eyes and saw that his leg was sticking out at an odd angle. Reaching down with a trembling hand, he tried to push his leg into a more natural position; however, as soon as his fingers touched his hot skin, a spasm of pain shot down his leg. He withdrew his hand. Dried blood was crusted all over him, and his sheet was sticking to the cuts and scratches that crisscrossed the length of his legs. He sank back onto his mattress, groaning as every single muscle in his back seemed to protest the movement.

"Harry? Harry."

A gentle, yet insistent voice was penetrating the thick darkness. Harry tried to push it away, tried to embrace the peaceful oblivion of sleep once more, but he could not find the strength to pull away from that nagging tone. His eyelids flickered slightly.

"Can you hear me, Harry?" _That voice_ , Harry thought. _It doesn't belong to the Dursleys_. A small frown shadowed his features as he tried to turn his head to the source of the sound. His eyelids felt sticky, as though they were glued shut, and his throat felt as though it had been coated with a hefty dose of Skele-Gro. A soft, airy moan escaped his lips and he grimaced at the red hot pain that licked up his esophagus. He wouldn't be surprised if flames came out of his mouth.

"How long has he been in this state?" Harry relaxed, glad that the question wasn't directed at him.

He heard a spluttering noise, like a car that would not start. "How are we supposed to—how can you expect us to babysit him twenty-four hours a day!"

"We don't know how long Harry has been like this. We didn't even know that he _was_ like this," Harry heard his Aunt Petunia say defensively. "He has taken to shutting himself into his room. I told Vernon to leave him be."

_How long have I been laying here?_ Harry wondered as his back ached fiercely. Come to think of it, his whole body hurt. He tried to think hard about everything that had happened to him so far during the week, but his memories seemed to be misty and disjointed. He remembered his hands gripping the stairs and the taste of blood in his mouth, and Dudley's face in the picture smirking at him from the top of the stairs.

"I apologize. It seems that I was very much mistaken in my hopes that you would be more concerned about your nephew's well-being. It is a pity that Lily's own sister wouldn't feel compassion for a suffering human being, let alone her own family. Needless to say, had your son, Dudley, and young Mr. Potter been in reversed positions, Lily and James would have been glad to welcome and care for Dudley as though he were their own."

The stern voice floated through Harry's ringing ears. Once again, he tried to open his eyes, to identify the strangely familiar voice that spoke so boldly to his relatives. However, it seemed as though a concrete brick was pressing over his face and after a brief struggle with his heavy, throbbing eyelids, he sank his head back into the pillow resignedly.

If anyone in the room took notice of his stirrings, they didn't mention it. The strange conversation between his aunt, uncle, and mystery person continued, sounding more and more heated as each word grew louder and more emphasized.

"You are out of line! How dare you come here and ridicule us for bearing this inconvenience for nearly fifteen years! How dare you expect us to do more than what you've already asked? We took the boy in, yes, but at what cost to us? Have you any idea how we ourselves have suffered in the presence of that—that—worthless child? We have risked the welfare of our reputations, of our possessions, of our careers for this boy, not to mention the safety of our own son!" Uncle Vernon paused for a moment, and Harry could hear him breathing heavily through his nostrils.

"Vernon, shhh!" hissed Aunt Petunia's voice, but Vernon's rant seemed beyond the capacity of being quelled.

"We have allowed him a roof over his head, given him clothes to wear, and we have let the brat eat our own food! We are not here for any medical or emotional support. If he is a…a…a wiz—one of your kind, then he should be able to take care of himself. As far as I can see, he is a selfish, ungrateful, cold-hearted little-"

" _Enough."_ That one word was spoken very softly, yet it contained so much force that Harry felt goose bumps rise on his arms and he shivered. His uncle's voice died away, yet his words still seemed to echo in Harry's aching ears.

_Wretched…heartless…_

"I am afraid that you are not in the position of making such judgments and accusations about someone whom you do not even treat as a person, Mr. Dursley. Your words make it perfectly clear to me that you do not know much about your charge. You are blinded by your bitterness and contempt of our world. You refuse to acknowledge that your nephew here is an individual with needs far beyond the simple physical necessities that keep us alive as time passes. Yes, you have taken Harry in; you have clothed him, and fed him…quite generously, judging by his extreme thinness. However, as Harry seems to be in great need of attention and kindness presently, and since you have demonstrated incapacity of offering such care, I must see to it that Harry receives the decent treatment that he so rightly deserves. Harry will not be staying here for the remainder of the summer holiday. We will be leaving shortly. You may expect to see him again next year for his final stay before he comes of age. Until then, he will be in far more able hands. I will send someone to collect Harry's belongings in a few days. Good evening to you both."

Harry's foggy brain vaguely registered footsteps retreating down the stairs as he tried to understand the words that were just spoken. "… _Harry will not be staying here..."_ Where was he going to go? Who was taking him?

He suddenly felt a cool hand rest over his forehead and eyes. His body twitched violently.

"Just relax, Harry." The hand gently slid down his face and along both sides of his neck. He then felt two hands pressing deeply beneath his jaw line. _Ouch._ For one wild moment, he thought that he was about to be strangled, but then the hands lifted from his neck. The person at his bedside squeezed Harry's shoulder gently, and as he felt his limp, aching body being pulled off of his lumpy mattress and onto something more narrow and much softer, Harry finally cracked his watery eyes open a tiny bit, only to see a swirl of silver hair.

"D—Dumbledore?"

"Yes, Harry," the voice answered softly. "Everything will be all right now."

A sudden sense of panic engulfed Harry. _Why would Dumbledore himself come to fetch Harry? Was this really Dumbledore or a Death Eater in disguise? How could he know? What if he would be carted off to Voldemort in a matter of minutes? He had no way of defending himself!_

Harry thrashed aggressively against the stretcher he was lying on, even though those movements sent fire to his injuries. The blankets tangled around his body like a straitjacket and it only heightened Harry's sense of desperation. _I have to get away!_ He thought that if he could roll himself onto the floor, he could perhaps find his wand. He couldn't remember where he had last seen it. Was it underneath the floorboards? Under the bed? In his back pocket?

His thoughts were interrupted when he felt a cool hand rest against his forehead and another against his chest. "Don't do that, Harry," the person claiming to be Dumbledore said, as Harry tried to twist around the hands that thwarted his struggles.

"I assure you, I am who I say I am, Harry," Dumbledore's voice said, as though he knew the cause of Harry's restlessness. "And if you require verification, I will provide it. I have known you for many years, though we have never had a decent conversation, face-to-face, until your first year at Hogwarts. On that occasion, I remember that you glimpsed your family in a mirror and I told you that I saw socks."

Harry stopped his struggling; he felt his muscles relax against the cloth beneath him, but the throbbing remained throughout his limbs and torso.

"Thank you, Harry. Please be still and relaxed. I do not know the extent of your illness or injuries yet, but I do know that you should not move unless it is absolutely necessary. I am taking you to a place where you can be healed."

The sincerity in his voice was nearly overpowering. Harry didn't know how to respond. He suddenly felt a cocoon of relief envelop him and he felt his body sink further into the stretcher.

"You're safe now," Dumbledore said. "Everything will be all right."

Harry used the last of his strength to shake his head weakly from side to side. "No," he whispered, before he slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know how you like it so far. Your feedback is much appreciated and helps make me a better writer!


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